The possibility is real, but the weight of responsibility refuses to lift from my shoulders. I can’t put any hope in possibilities. I have to contend with reality, and the reality is that even if Melkin doesn’t try to kill Rachel, they have an assassin on their trail, and he won’t hesitate to murder them both once they have the package.

As I leave the footsteps behind and enter the kitchen to restock on fuel and food, fear wraps itself around me, whispering terrible things.

You’re too late.

Rachel can’t beat an assassin. He’ll stab her through the heart and leave her like she’s nothing. Less than nothing.

Unless Melkin kills her first.

You’ve lost all the family you ever had because you’re too late.

Too late.

The kitchen is a mess. Supplies are ripped out of cupboards and strewn across grimy countertops. The remains of a mostly uneaten dinner lie on the kitchen table. Fear sinks into my heart and refuses to let go.

They left in a hurry. They left on the run.

I have to believe they’ve continued to outwit the assassin on their trail. Any other thought threatens to compromise my ability to plan ahead. Forcing the fear into a distant corner of my mind, I rewrap my ribcage and stuff additional supplies in my pack.

I need to rest, but I can’t. Every second I lose is another second Rachel comes closer to death.

Instead, I quickly eat a decent meal, drink my fill of water, and swallow a small pinch of pain medicine. Locking the house behind me, I head south again, looking closely for a sign of someone following Melkin and Rachel.

It takes nearly four hours to find it, but I do. Near a small clearing where they stopped to eat, a man hunched down behind the thick cover of a flowering azalea bush. His boots dug into the dirt in a way that suggests he was leaning forward on his toes. I can’t distinguish enough of the sole to judge his height and weight, but the maker’s mark on the tip of his boot tells me one very important fact.

He’s from Rowansmark.

Once Rachel retrieves the package, she’s dead. If Melkin fails to kill her, this man will.

My body screams for rest. My head feels heavy and off-kilter. I draw in a deep breath, brace myself for the pain, and start running.

Mind over matter.

I can’t afford to let my body rule me now. I have an assassin to kill.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

RACHEL

Voices float above me as I lie on the cold, unyielding ground. I imagine sinking below it. Letting it take me under.

Finding peace.

The piercing pain of loss is a double-edged blade I can’t bear to touch. How can I grieve for him? Cry for him? Bleed for him inside when it won’t change anything?

It won’t change anything.

He’s gone.

All the words I never found time to say. All the things we never found time to do. Ripped from me with merciless finality.

Gone.

But I’m not gone. I’m still here—miles from home, surrounded by scorched earth and strangers, facedown on my father’s grave.

Here.

Somewhere inside me, I hear an anguished wailing—the wordless keening of unbearable grief. I can’t stand to hear it. To feel it. To let it live.

A yawning darkness within me opens wide, whispering promises to take the pain. Swallow the loss. Make it possible to draw a breath without choking on the shattered pieces no one will ever fix.

I dig my fingers into his grave and flinch as the images of Dad and Oliver sear themselves into my brain. I will choke on this grief. Lie here impotent, unable to avenge them. Loss is a gaping hole with jagged teeth, and I can’t bear it.

I push the images away, scramble back from the edge of that gaping hole, and let the darkness within me swallow it all. The wail of grief inside me slowly subsides into a well of icy silence—deafening and absolute. The silence rips me in two, cutting me off from everything I can’t stand to face. I don’t try to stop it. If I feel the loss, it will break me.

And I can’t break until the Commander is dead.

Because Dad’s gone. And I’m still here.

And before I follow him, I have a debt to pay.

My fingers clench into fists, my nails breaking as I shove them through hard-packed dirt. Fury is a welcome companion, warming me with something that almost feels like comfort.

It’s the Commander’s fault Dad was ever given the package in the first place. His fault I’ll never see Oliver again. His fault Logan languishes in a dungeon.

His fault Dad is dead.

I owe him for all of it.

I can’t find my grief for Oliver. My fear for Logan. My agony over losing Dad forever. I can’t, and I don’t care.

Feeling nothing but rage and resolve makes me stronger.

One day soon the Commander will realize just how strong he’s made me.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

LOGAN

When I stumble for the fourth time in ten minutes, I realize mind over matter isn’t going to cut it. I need rest. If I keep going in my current state of exhaustion, I run the risk of missing a critical piece of information, blundering into highwaymen, or losing Rachel and Melkin’s trail.

Plus, the pain in my side is making it difficult to think straight.

I can think of a hundred Worst Case Scenarios, but the solutions feel vague and prone to failure.

The need to reach Rachel is a constant pressure against my chest. I meant what I said to the Commander. If Melkin attacks Rachel openly, she’ll drop him like a stone.

But Melkin isn’t stupid. He’s been traveling with her for over a week. Any misconceptions he had about her formidability as a foe must have been put to rest by now.